


you must be a masochist

by slybrunette



Category: Weeds
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slybrunette/pseuds/slybrunette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an au version of the S6 finale. plan d.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you must be a masochist

“This was a horrible fucking plan.”

“This was not – “ his automatic defensiveness falls away in the face of, “this was _your_ plan. Your plan that is horrible. Not my plan.”

Nancy floors it, as if that slight jerk forward will be enough to shut him up. Instead, Stevie cries in the backseat and she knocks her head against the headrest three times for good measure, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

It’s been six hours since Dearborn and the grand irony here is that there is a sign to his right alerting him to the fact that they’re five miles out from Pittsburgh. If she notices – and there’s no way she doesn’t because that’s all they heard about for a _very_ long stretch of time – then she doesn’t say anything. No one’s said much of anything since they got on the road. Until now.

“This wasn’t my plan,” she says, calmer than the initial burst, “Plan B was my plan. I said Plan B. This is some bastardized interpretation of my plan.”

“Plan D,” he chimes in, where he really shouldn’t.

“Shut the fuck up.”

She hits him square in the chest as she says it, and he recoils, an arm brought up to stop any further attacks and “what’s with all the hostility?”

It’s a front. He’s been hit by her before, many, many times, occasionally with objects but mostly just with fists and open palms; she’s going easy on him. That’s never good. Angry Nancy is a force to be reckoned with but you love what’s familiar to you, no matter how much pain that thing can sometimes cause. On The Verge Of A Breakdown Nancy is an entirely different animal and he’s not too manly to admit that it’s also one that scares the hell out of him.

“You thought I was going to leave him? You actually thought,” her face contorts, short, stilted laughter without finding anything funny, “I was just going to leave him with Esteban. After _everything_.”

“Well, Plan C involved you going to jail, so, I’m sorry, wasn’t exactly a big leap to make.”

His words come out more cutting than he intends for them to, that careful, joking tone he’s cultivated for moments like this, when he needs to be the comic relief if only to keep everyone else from killing each other, bailing on him.

There’s no one else. Just them and the baby. End of the road.

“Really?”

“Best case scenario, they arrested both of you and you turned state’s evidence in exchange for immunity. They still would’ve found the tape, still would’ve found out about Shane. And Stevie would’ve been in state custody or shipped off to the first blood relative they could find – which probably would’ve been your sister and we both know what a joy that would’ve been for all involved.”

“It would’ve ended this.”

“So would Copenhagen two years ago.”

“You know what? Fine, Andy. I fucked up. I fucked up again. Is that what you want to hear?” She’s back to yelling again, and he looks away to watch the exit for Pittsburgh fade in his rearview mirror. He misses the guy who cuts her off but she lays on the horn and shouts “son of a bitch” to a closed window and an oblivious driver with his cell phone pressed to his ear.

They go back to silence, for a while.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The sun sets on them at a rest stop in Charleston, and by Roanoke they’re going on twelve plus hours without more than a ten minute break. They’re directionless, driving for the sake of distance once more, and he’d be lying if he said he got more than three hours in the night before. He’d be lying if he said she didn’t look like shit, they both do, and Stevie needs to sleep in something that isn’t a carseat for a change.

“There,” he points to the first place he sees that doesn’t have motorcycles parked out front or people loitering outside, “there’s a motel. Let’s go there.”

“No.” She shoos his hand away, catching it with her own and pressing it back into his lap. “Just twelve more hours. Isn’t that what you said, put twenty four hours in between us and them?”

Since when did she start listening to him? And why now, of all times. “We’ll be in Florida in twelve hours. And then we’ll be in the ocean. Where are we going, Nance?”

“I don’t know.” Forehead against her palm at a stoplight, she sighs, “I really don’t know.”

Five minutes later, they double back and pay cash. They first thing she does in the room is lock all the windows and flip the deadbolt.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

She holds vigil over her phone while he flips channels on the old television that only gets local channels, mainly news and public access. He tries not to spend too much time looking for her photo, pink flower in her hair at the wedding he couldn’t bring himself to go to and the word _missing_ printed in red underneath, Stevie’s picture sure to follow.

“What’s the closest international airport to here?”

“PTI, in Greensboro,” he supplies, quickly. Rolls onto his stomach, up on his elbows on the bed to add, “Dulles is a better bet.”

“How far?”

“Four hours, give or take.”

She nods slowly, the movement dropping off entirely, and then it’s just her fingers skimming over the display of the phone. It’s a different number, one Esteban and his cronies won’t know to track, but he still had half a mind to toss it out the window somewhere back in Ohio, if it wasn’t their last means of communication with Silas and Shane.

“They’ll call,” he says.

“He saw me leave. He saw _us_ leave, _with_ Stevie.” He knows she’s been running scenarios in her head since they got on the road because he has too. The absence of a tail, of any kind of sign of a pursuit probably reads as unnerving to her. Andy’s trying for optimism. He pulled it together before they cleared Pittsburgh. He can freak out when they get wherever the hell it is they’re going. “He’ll think it was all of us, right? He has to think it was all of us.”

“You have his son; he said so himself. You have his son and now he’s coming for you. Silas is out of the picture. And if he wanted Shane, all it would’ve taken was one tape turned into the FBI or the DEA or whichever agency wants in on the action and he would’ve been set, but he didn’t.”

“No, he just used Shane as bait.”

“Well now they can use me.”

She laughs again, even less pleasant than back in Pittsburgh, the back of her hand muffling the sound, and she stops looking at him or even feigning the illusion of it, head turned towards the window, curtains drawn, and so it’s nothing but white walls and the faint glow of streetlights shining through taupe drapes, every sound and every shadow a reminder of the not-so distant threat of red and blue flashing lights, and that’s if they’re lucky.

“You’d come rescue me, right?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound as pathetic as it comes out. He doesn’t mean to sound so unsure. There are large chunks of Andy’s life that can be summed up similarly; he doesn’t mean to but he does and then he pays for it, sometimes instantly and sometimes later, when he’s not looking for it.

Her phone comes to life on the table in front of her.

So. Later it is.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Silas says their connection is delayed, thunderstorms over Paris, but there’s money he won’t explain and a hotel next to the airport, and he swears up and down he’ll call from Copenhagen.

Nancy cries silently in the corner, phone still clutched loosely in her hand; he takes a shower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

She’s on the bed when he returns, lights dimmed and sheets pulled up to her waist. It’s not even ten but they’ll be back on the road before the sun is even up at this rate, so he doesn’t argue but slips in beside her instead.

Her eyes open as the bed dips, and he whispers a “hey” that sounds too much like an apology as he settles.

“Copenhagen,” she murmurs, a moment later, her voice showing no traces of sleep, and when she rolls to her side her hand curls around his forearm.

Her body stretches parallel to his own, and he thinks distantly of pillow forts and the fact that he almost got on a plane today without her, that she said _Plan C_ and, for a second there, he had even contemplated going through with it. He was going to be the responsible adult and do what was asked of him, only he didn’t, only he told Shane and Warren to get on the plane, he’d take the baby, and pulled Silas aside with orders to call the minute they got to Paris. He found Nancy right as security decided to have a little chat with Esteban.

“He can’t know.”

“He won’t.”

She leans over him then, smears her mouth to his, and it’s not a quick misplaced peck, simultaneously keeping him close and holding him at bay. No, that line gets crossed when she licks into him, when she moves so that she’s half on top of him, his left arm trapped under her body as his right scrambles for purchase, falling at her waist. She shifts closer, half straddling him with his thigh between her knees and he gets his arm free and gives himself permission to hate his own guts as he pushes at her shoulder.

“Nance – “

“Oh Jesus, Andy – “

“I’m just saying that – “

“Shut the fuck up,” she says, not for the first time, or even the third time, today. And, yeah, he’ll listen. He’s not the good guy, he’s just the better guy in a series of dangerous, murderous assholes, and he wants this – has wanted this for too long – so he’ll go with it.

On his terms.

He’s got it in his head that the best course of action is to minimize the damage done when, come tomorrow morning, she decides the whole thing was one big frustration driven escapade – never fear -- and then spends the next six months denying it ever happened while he argues to the contrary. He’s overly familiar with the pattern; it’s just that the stakes get higher every time.

He’s not getting accused of using present circumstances to get his rocks off. No fucking way.

So he goes for a little more give and a little less take. He gets her onto her back, her shirt rucked up to just below her breasts, and this is the first he’s noticed that she abandoned her shorts and there’s nothing but lacy black underwear and skin as his hand slips under the covers, catching in the thin fabric. He presses a kiss to her stomach, just below her navel, and then disappears under the covers, easing her underwear down her legs until she takes control, kicks them off herself, and he takes the opportunity to hook one of her legs over his shoulder, hands spreading her wide.

“What the hell are you – “ it’s the beginning of a laugh, right there, a real one, and that’s when his hands tighten against her thighs and he flattens his tongue against her clit, her words getting lost in that sharp intake of breath, expelled in a hiss through gritted teeth and “fuck.”

Her hips arch against his mouth and this, this right here, is Andy’s _other_ wheelhouse.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

He forgets to move.

She comes down, breath ragged, and his head is still, against her thigh, the blankets kicked off the bed entirely between the two of them, and he watches the rise and fall of her chest even out. He’s more than a little hard inside of his jeans but that’s not exactly news and he’s content right here.

“Fuck,” she exhales.

“Seems to be the favored expression tonight,” he retorts.

“Copenhagen,” she repeats, the other favored expression of the evening, and she sounds like she did in the back of the RV, confident.

“Yeah.”

“We’re really going to do this.”

He nods against her skin, and right now he doesn’t even care which _this_ she’s talking about. Just _something_ , some semblance of change.

“Okay.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 _fin._


End file.
